u/loh_lah

I’m about to break unwritten rule #1 of this place, which states: You entertain me with questions, I reply with charming stories from my life, and we don’t call it a one-way street until one of us gets bored.

I’m not looking for those easy dopamine strokes with zero investment. If you’ve never been in a conversation where you had to perform emotional CPR to keep it alive past the third exchange? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - chances are, it was the other person doing it.

But if you’re still here, you’re probably tired of screaming into the void too.

I’m about to break unwritten rule #2 of this place, which states: You must choose your side. Either you’re Team Spark - and everyone will assume you’re the type who fills awkward silences with closeup shots of your peen and disappears as soon as post-nut clarity hits. Or you’re in the noble Order of Slow Burn - then place your hands for the other person to see and wait until three months of messaging finally lead to something akin to chemistry. There is no third option.

But what if I want to have my cake and eat it too? Substance, meaning, exploration, reciprocity - but with the kind of anticipation that drives crazy from the very first days. A flame that burns slowly because we’re adding the logs reasonably, but the wood itself is bone-dry. If you’ve never watched your school crush clumsily strike stone against stone over dry grass, muttering “c’mon c’mon” with growing embarrassment in a desperate attempt to light a campfire? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - you’ve never felt the relief of someone showing up at that exact moment with a box of matches.

“Okay, sounds good,” you’ll admit. “But who’s speaking?”

Well, I come with a set of disclaimers:
• I look sweet. That’s a design flaw, not a promise.
• Dominant, but not loud or performative. I don’t raise my voice - I make you want to lower yours.
• My dry humour has been classified as a controlled substance in several jurisdictions.
• Married, one child, European timezone. All three are real, none are required to match, and I won’t make you my therapist about any of them.

Visually I’m the type your Sunday school teacher warned you about, but only after I complimented her casserole at the dinner she’d invited me to. Medium-length chestnut hair, prominent jawline, proportioned features; a soft smile and green-grey eyes that volunteer at a shelter, and also spark something you’ll be embarrassed to explain.

Physically - fit enough that you’ll rethink your morals and maybe your plans for the evening. I’m well-built not because I’m vain, but because I refuse to be outrun or pushed away from the ball by a Sunday league striker. ~6’2” athletic frame that comes from football - the true football, where you actually kick the ball with your foot instead of carrying it in hands - and the kind of gym sessions where I’m not photographing myself.

I spend my days in a tech giant, where I’m paid for filling budgets, rather than draining them. After hours - off the pitch and out of the gym - you might find me sharing my unpopular opinion about modern politics, lecturing on a favourite dead empire, arguing about the best Scorsese ending or getting nostalgic about a random Champions League final. But you don’t have to have your own opinion on any of the above - just come with the same wit you’d bring to a bar debate, and we’ll get along famously.

Well, I’ve got bad news for you - I already own a real estate in your head.

The good news I promised? The spacious, double-storey apartment inside my brain is still for sale.

I’m about to break OA’s unwritten rule #1, which states: You entertain me with questions, I reply with charming stories from my life, and we don’t call it a one-way street until one of us gets bored.

I’m not looking for those easy dopamine strokes with zero investment. If you’ve never been in a conversation where you had to perform emotional CPR to keep it alive past the third exchange? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - chances are, it was the other person doing it.

But if you’re still here, you’re probably tired of screaming into the void too.

I’m about to break OA’s unwritten rule #2, which states: You must choose your side. Either you’re Team Spark - and everyone will assume you’re the type who fills awkward silences with closeup shots of your peen and disappears as soon as post-nut clarity hits. Or you’re in the noble Order of Slow Burn - then place your hands for the other person to see and wait until three months of messaging finally lead to something akin to chemistry. There is no third option.

But what if I want to have my cake and eat it too? Substance, meaning, exploration, reciprocity - but with the kind of anticipation that drives crazy from the very first days. A flame that burns slowly because we’re adding the logs reasonably, but the wood itself is bone-dry. If you’ve never watched your school crush clumsily strike stone against stone over dry grass, muttering “c’mon c’mon” with growing embarrassment in a desperate attempt to light a campfire? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - you’ve never felt the relief of someone showing up at that exact moment with a box of matches.

“Okay, sounds good,” you’ll admit. “But who’s speaking?”

Well, I come with a set of disclaimers:
• I look sweet. That’s a design flaw, not a promise.
• Dominant, but not loud or performative. I don’t raise my voice - I make you want to lower yours.
• My dry humour has been classified as a controlled substance in several jurisdictions.
• Married, one child, European timezone. All three are real, none are required to match, and I won’t make you my therapist about any of them.

Visually I’m the type your Sunday school teacher warned you about, but only after I complimented her casserole at the dinner she’d invited me to. Medium-length chestnut hair, prominent jawline, proportioned features; a soft smile and green-grey eyes that volunteer at a shelter, and also spark something you’ll be embarrassed to explain.

Physically - fit enough that you’ll rethink your morals and maybe your plans for the evening. I’m well-built not because I’m vain, but because I refuse to be outrun or pushed away from the ball by a Sunday league striker. 6’2” athletic frame that comes from football - the true football, where you actually kick the ball with your foot instead of carrying it in hands - and the kind of gym sessions where I’m not photographing myself.

I spend my days in a tech giant, where I’m paid for filling budgets, rather than draining them. After hours - off the pitch and out of the gym - you might find me sharing my unpopular opinion about modern politics, lecturing on a favourite dead empire, arguing about the best Scorsese ending or getting nostalgic about a random Champions League final. But you don’t have to have your own opinion on any of the above - just come with the same wit you’d bring to a bar debate, and we’ll get along famously.

Well, I’ve got bad news for you - I already own a real estate in your head.

The good news I promised? The spacious, double-storey apartment inside my brain is still for sale.

I’m about to break OA’s unwritten rule #1, which states: You entertain me with questions, I reply with charming stories from my life, and we don’t call it a one-way street until one of us gets bored.

I’m not looking for those easy dopamine strokes with zero investment. If you’ve never been in a conversation where you had to perform emotional CPR to keep it alive past the third exchange? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - chances are, it was the other person doing it.

But if you’re still here, you’re probably tired of screaming into the void too.

I’m about to break OA’s unwritten rule #2, which states: You must choose your side. Either you’re Team Spark - and everyone will assume you’re the type who fills awkward silences with closeup shots of your peen and disappears as soon as post-nut clarity hits. Or you’re in the noble Order of Slow Burn - then you put your hands for the other person to see and wait until three months of messaging finally yield something resembling interest. There is no third option.

But what if I want to have my cake and eat it too? Substance, meaning, exploration, reciprocity - but with the kind of anticipation that drives crazy from the very first days. A flame that burns slowly because we’re adding the logs reasonably, but the wood itself is bone-dry. If you’ve never watched your school crush desperately trying to light a campfire, clumsily striking stone against stone over dry grass, muttering “c’mon c’mon” with growing embarrassment? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - you’ve never felt the relief of someone showing up at that exact moment with a box of matches.

“Okay, sounds good,” you’ll admit. “But who’s speaking?”

Well, I come with a set of disclaimers:

- I look sweet. That’s a design flaw, not a promise.

- Dominant, but not loud or performative. I don’t raise my voice - I make you want to lower yours.

- My dry humour has been classified as a controlled substance in several jurisdictions.

- Married, one child, European timezone. All three are real, none are required to match, and I won’t make you my therapist about any of them.

Visually I’m the type your Sunday school teacher warned you about, but only after I complimented her casserole at the dinner she’d invited me to. Medium-length chestnut hair, prominent jawline, proportioned features; a soft smile and green-grey eyes that volunteer at a shelter, and also spark something you’ll be embarrassed to explain.

Physically I’m fit enough that you’ll rethink your morals and maybe your plans for the evening. Not because I’m vain, but because I refuse to be outrun or pushed away from the ball by a Sunday league striker. Athletic, wiry, 6’2” frame that comes from football - the true football, where you actually kick the ball with your foot instead of carrying it in hands - and the kind of gym sessions where I’m not photographing myself.

I spend my days in a tech giant, where I’m paid for filling budgets, rather than draining them. After hours - off the pitch and out of the gym - you might find me sharing my unpopular opinion about modern politics, lecturing on a favourite dead empire, arguing about the best Scorsese ending or getting nostalgic about a random Champions League final. But you don’t have to have your own opinion on any of the above - just come with the same wit you’d bring to a bar debate, and we’ll get along famously.

Well, I’ve got bad news for you - I already own a real estate in your head.

The good news I promised? The spacious, double-storey apartment inside my brain is still for sale.

I’m about to break OA’s unwritten rule #1, which states: You entertain me with questions, I reply with charming stories from my life, and we don’t call it a one-way street until one of us gets bored.

I’m not looking for those easy dopamine strokes with zero investment. If you’ve never been in a conversation where you had to perform emotional CPR to keep it alive past the third exchange? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - chances are, it was the other person doing it.

But if you’re still here, you’re probably tired of screaming into the void too.

I’m about to break OA’s unwritten rule #2, which states: You must choose your side. Either you’re Team Spark - and everyone will assume you’re the type who fills awkward silences with closeup shots of your peen and disappears as soon as post-nut clarity hits. Or you’re in the noble Order of Slow Burn - then you put your hands for the other person to see and wait until three months of messaging finally yield something resembling interest. There is no third option.

But what if I want to have my cake and eat it too? Substance, meaning, exploration, reciprocity - but with the kind of anticipation that drives crazy from the very first days. A flame that burns slowly because we’re adding the logs reasonably, but the wood itself is bone-dry. If you’ve never watched your school crush desperately trying to light a campfire, clumsily striking stone against stone over dry grass, muttering “c’mon c’mon” with growing embarrassment? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - you’ve never felt the relief of someone showing up at that exact moment with a box of matches.

“Okay, sounds good,” you’ll admit. “But who’s speaking?”

Well, I come with a set of disclaimers:

- I look sweet. That’s a design flaw, not a promise.

- Dominant, but not loud or performative. I don’t raise my voice - I make you want to lower yours.

- My dry humour has been classified as a controlled substance in several jurisdictions.

- Married, one child, European timezone. All three are real, none are required to match, and I won’t make you my therapist about any of them.

Visually I’m the type your Sunday school teacher warned you about, but only after I complimented her casserole at the dinner she’d invited me to. Medium-length chestnut hair, prominent jawline, proportioned features; a soft smile and green-grey eyes that volunteer at a shelter, and also spark something you’ll be embarrassed to explain.

Physically I’m fit enough that you’ll rethink your morals and maybe your plans for the evening. Not because I’m vain, but because I refuse to be outrun or pushed away from the ball by a Sunday league striker. Athletic, wiry, 6’2” frame that comes from football - the true football, where you actually kick the ball with your foot instead of carrying it in hands - and the kind of gym sessions where I’m not photographing myself.

I spend my days in a tech giant, where I’m paid for filling budgets, rather than draining them. After hours - off the pitch and out of the gym - you might find me sharing my unpopular opinion about modern politics, lecturing on a favourite dead empire, arguing about the best Scorsese ending or getting nostalgic about a random Champions League final. But you don’t have to have your own opinion on any of the above - just come with the same wit you’d bring to a bar debate, and we’ll get along famously.

Well, I’ve got bad news for you - I already own a real estate in your head.

The good news I promised? The spacious, double-storey apartment inside my brain is still for sale.

I’m about to break OA’s unwritten rule #1, which states: You entertain me with questions, I reply with charming stories from my life, and we don’t call it a one-way street until one of us gets bored.

I’m not looking for those easy dopamine strokes with zero investment. If you’ve never been in a conversation where you had to perform emotional CPR to keep it alive past the third exchange? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - chances are, it was the other person doing it.

But if you’re still here, you’re probably tired of screaming into the void too.

I’m about to break OA’s unwritten rule #2, which states: You must choose your side. Either you’re Team Spark - and everyone will assume you’re the type who fills awkward silences with closeup shots of your peen and disappears as soon as post-nut clarity hits. Or you’re in the noble Order of Slow Burn - then you put your hands for the other person to see and wait until three months of messaging finally yield something resembling interest. There is no third option.

But what if I want to have my cake and eat it too? Substance, meaning, exploration, reciprocity - but with the kind of anticipation that drives crazy from the very first days. A flame that burns slowly because we’re adding the logs reasonably, but the wood itself is bone-dry. If you’ve never watched your school crush desperately trying to light a campfire, clumsily striking stone against stone over dry grass, muttering “c’mon c’mon” with growing embarrassment? Well, I’ve got bad news for you - you’ve never felt the relief of someone showing up at that exact moment with a box of matches.

“Okay, sounds good,” you’ll admit. “But who’s speaking?”

Well, I come with a set of disclaimers:

- I look sweet. That’s a design flaw, not a promise.

- Dominant, but not loud or performative. I don’t raise my voice - I make you want to lower yours.

- My dry humour has been classified as a controlled substance in several jurisdictions.

- Married, one child, European timezone. All three are real, none are required to match, and I won’t make you my therapist about any of them.

Visually I’m the type your Sunday school teacher warned you about, but only after I complimented her casserole at the dinner she’d invited me to. Medium-length chestnut hair, prominent jawline, proportioned features; a soft smile and green-grey eyes that volunteer at a shelter, and also spark something you’ll be embarrassed to explain.

Physically I’m fit enough that you’ll rethink your morals and maybe your plans for the evening. Not because I’m vain, but because I refuse to be outrun or pushed away from the ball by a Sunday league striker. Athletic, wiry, 6’2” frame that comes from football - the true football, where you actually kick the ball with your foot instead of carrying it in hands - and the kind of gym sessions where I’m not photographing myself.

I spend my days in a tech giant, where I’m paid for filling budgets, rather than draining them. After hours - off the pitch and out of the gym - you might find me sharing my unpopular opinion about modern politics, lecturing on a favourite dead empire, arguing about the best Scorsese ending or getting nostalgic about a random Champions League final. But you don’t have to have your own opinion on any of the above - just come with the same wit you’d bring to a bar debate, and we’ll get along famously.

Well, I’ve got bad news for you - I already own a real estate in your head.

The good news I promised? The spacious, double-storey apartment inside my brain is still for sale.